


Damsel

by sospes



Category: Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 21:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11952648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Valerian gets kidnapped, and needs a helping hand.





	Damsel

**Author's Note:**

> This went to darker places than I intended...

Valerian wakes slowly. 

The air is hot around him, too hot, so hot that it rasps his lungs and scalds the inside of his nose. It’s uncomfortable, but it also narrows down where he could be: the last he remembers, he was on Alpha, and given the station’s stringent immigration policy it’s highly unlikely that he could be smuggled out on short notice. There’s only a few habitats on Alpha that have a baseline temperature that’s this hot, so—as long as he’s not in a sauna, which seems unlikely—it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out where he is. Visual cues will help.

He slits his eyes open, just enough that he can see but hopefully not enough that whoever’s taken him—his memory is fuzzy on that part—will notice. His chin is resting on his chest so he’s not got much to help him straight ahead, but his peripherals are still useful. The environment is – bright, so bright, glaringly bright and coloured in flickers of neon and flare. He closes his eyes again, thinks. Heat, and a bright environment. And, now that he’s focusing, a vaguely sulphuric smell in the air. That’s still not enough. 

“We know you’re awake, Agent Valerian.” 

Valerian opens his eyes, raises his head, offers a cocky smile. “Of course you do,” he drawls. “Smart guys like you? Not surprising.” He frowns. “And who exactly are you?” 

Surprisingly for the temperature, the three burly guys sat around him are human. They’re not wearing anything that’ll help him identify them, mores the pity, but there are what look like gangland tattoos just peeking out above the top of their colours that seem oddly familiar. Valerian tries not to look like he’s thinking about it too hard. 

“I’m Alec,” the one sitting in front of him growls. His teeth are painted in the same intricate patterns as his neck. “That’s Lanky. This is Pannas.” 

“Nice to meet you, gentleman,” Valerian grins. He doesn’t bother trying to test the bonds he can feel around his wrists, ankles, knees, and chest, not with these guys watching him so intensely. That can wait for later. “And d’you want to tell me what you want from me?” 

“ _We_ don’t want anything from you,” Alec answers. “This is nothing personal, you understand. We were hired to pick you up, bring you here, then wait for further instructions. So we’re waiting. Longer than we were asked to, admittedly, but the payday’s good enough.” 

“ ‘Hired’,” Valerian echoes, nodding – but, shit, that makes this worse. Hired means they’re professionals. Hired means that these bonds aren’t going to slip and they’re going to be damn difficult to take out. His heart thuds faster, just for a moment. “Alright then. Any idea how much longer we’re going to be here? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s pretty hot in here.” Valerian’s hair is sweat-slicked already, sticking to his forehead, getting in his eyes. He absently reflects that he needs to get it cut, before figuring that that’s probably not a hugely helpful thought in his current situation. 

The one Alec called Lanky grumbles something under his breath, but otherwise keeps quiet. Pannas is stoically silent even though there’s sweat dripping off the end of his nose. Alec leans forward, just enough that it’s threatening. “We’re staying put until we receive further instructions,” he says quietly. “You got a problem with that, Agent? Because I’ve got plenty left of the sedative we knocked you out with. You can just sleep through everything if that’s what you prefer.” 

That’s probably not a great plan. “No, I’m good,” Valerian says, nodding. “I’ll sweat. It’s good for you. Free sauna, right?”

Alec doesn’t respond to that. Lanky and Pannas look generally unimpressed. 

“So,” Valerian says, after a moment of awkward silence. “Nice place you’ve got here. Whereabouts are we, exactly? The Pea’qan forests? The database of souls? Luan!in town?” 

Alec doesn’t blink, doesn’t react, doesn’t even let a microexpression slip. Which is annoying, because Valerian’s pretty sure that it’s one of those three but he can’t pin it down any closer without more information. Their surroundings are bright neon, walls modulating through a dozen different colours, black light streaming in through the windows, bathing Alec’s expression in stark shadow. If they were outside it would be easier, but the room they’re in is basically a tiny, hot neon box which isn’t really that specific. 

Valerian squints at Alec. “Do you practice the stoicism?” he asks. “Because you’re really good at it. Like, do you sit in front of a mirror and practice not reacting to things?” 

“You talk a lot,” Alec says, still with barely a flicker of his eyelids. “Do you practice that?” 

“Sometimes,” Valerian answers brightly. “It’s the kind of thing you have to work at, you know? It’s not easy just pulling things out of the air like this. We get lessons from the government. Or, at least, we have to organise themselves, but they reimburse it for us. Not that it’s that expensive, but every little helps, you know?” 

“Agent,” Alec interrupts flatly. “Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you.” 

Valerian twists his wrists, just a little, just enough to test the strength of his bonds. There’s no give, no slack. He fights the urge to bite his lip. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it? We’re all friends here.”

“We drugged you and kidnapped you,” Alec says, “which really wasn’t as hard as we thought it was going to be, given your reputation. One busy street, one injection. Did you even notice the needle going into your neck?” 

Valerian shuffles his feet, tests those bonds, too. Still nothing. “Don’t remember,” he says, flatly honest. “I don’t remember much, to be honest, definitely not passing out in the middle of the street. And I feel like I’d remember that.” 

“That’s the drug we use,” Alec explains. “Makes your memory fuzzy.”

“I imagine that’s pretty useful.” 

“In my line of work? Yeah, it can be.” Alec’s tone is verging on conversational. “There’s a blend we usually use for people like you that’s blended with a muscle relaxant, but we were specifically asked not to do that this time.” 

“Asked by who?” Valerian asks. He’s not sure where Alec’s chattiness is coming from but he’s going to do his best to take advantage. 

“You really think I’m going to tell you that?” 

Valerian shrugs. “It’s worth a shot,” he offers. “You told me you drugged me.” 

“I think you probably would have figured that out,” Alec points out. 

“You still didn’t have to help me along.” 

Alec frowns a little, sits back in his chair. “I guess not,” he allows. “You’re just… different to our usual targets, you know? Most start yelling when they wake up and try to break their restraints a lot less subtly than you are.”

Valerian cocks an eyebrow. “You saying you respect me?”

On his right, Pannas snorts. 

“Not sure I’d go that far,” Alec answers, free and easy. “You’re still a mark. If you’d put up more resistance to getting tagged, then maybe. But you didn’t.”

“That’s true,” Valerian nods. “Then again, it’s kinda difficult to resist drugs going straight into your bloodstream.”

“Better armour would do it.” 

“This armour is already pretty cutting edge,” Valerian points out. “Lightweight composite outer casing, vacuum-resistance underfabric, faceplate build into the collar. I can get thrown into hard vacuum and come out the other end with only a couple of scratches.”

Alec’s gaze is flickering over Valerian’s armour as he describes it, inspecting the notches left in his shoulderplate from a particularly nasty run in with an angry Boulanbator last week. “That is true,” he says slowly. “I’ve always meant to get my hands on some governmental armour, to strip it down and retroengineer it, you know? Freedom of information doesn’t seem to extend to experimental military R&D.”

Valerian quirks an eyebrow. “Does that really surprise you?”

“I guess not,” Alec agrees. The neon brightness of their surroundings gleams loudly off his shiny bald head. “I’d take yours, but our instructions were very specific. You’re not to be touched.” 

Valerian flashes his beaming grin. “I’ll be sure to thank your employers for that. Not sure I want to be naked when I’m rescued.”

It’s Alec’s turn to cock an eyebrow. Valerian’s focusing solely on him, now, but he can hear Lanky and Pannas shifting on either side of him, clearly a little unnerved by the shift in conversation. “Rescue?” Alec echoes. “You really think you’re going to get rescued, Agent Valerian?” 

“I’m pretty sure, yeah,” Valerian answers. “You’ve been told about my partner, I assume?”

“What, Agent Laureline?” Alec says, tone somewhere between confused and dismissive. “We were told that she’s a resourceful agent, which is why we made sure to disable every tracker on you: the ones in your suit, all six of them, the ones in the heels of your boots, the subcutaneous ones at the nape of your neck.” 

“What about the one embedded in my spine?” 

“ _Of course_ the one embedded in your spine,” Alec answers sharply. “Do you think we’re amateurs?” 

Valerian nods slowly. “Yep,” he says, brighter than he should really be given his current situation. “That’s all of them. I am well and truly debugged.” 

Alec’s eyebrows are still halfway up his forehead. “And you still think you’re getting rescued?” 

“Oh, I know I am,” Valerian answers, lazy grin sprawling across his features. “Do you want me to tell you why?” 

Alec’s eyes are almost as neon as the world around them. “Go on, then. Entertain me.” 

Valerian cocks his head, relaxes back in the chair. His wrists hang loose, his ankles sit lax. “So,” he says, that grin still curling his lips. “Story time.” Alec looks unimpressed, but he doesn’t interrupt just yet. “There’s been a number of government agents going missing recently. Don’t feel bad if you didn’t hear about it on your criminal grapevine: we’ve been keeping it quiet. So there’s a scoop for you. But what that means if that every security operative is on high alert.” 

“Clearly didn’t do you much good,” Alec points out. 

Valerian shrugs. “Can’t have everything,” he says, mollifying, calm. “So I fucked up. But my partner’s going to be on high alert, and the moment she notices that I haven’t checked in on the accelerated schedule that we’re all keeping to right now, she’ll come looking for me.”

“With all of your trackers deactivated, that’ll be difficult.” 

“Not as difficult as you think,” Valerian says, shaking his head. “See, a few days ago our bosses finally pulled their fingers out of their asses and came up with a plan. The moment we miss a check in, all the external sensors in our armour are activated and they start sending live data about where we’ve ended up back to headquarters. No video footage, unfortunately—they opted out of the mounted cams to keep the suits as light as possible—but plenty of data about, say, ambient temperature.” 

Alec’s shaking his head. There’s something that’s looking suspiciously like worry starting to blossom in his eyes. “This room is shielded,” he says. “You can’t get a frequency out, and you _definitely_ can’t pick up any kind of signal from outside.” 

Valerian shrugs as much as he can when he’s tied to a chair. “Hate to break it to you, boys, but you must have missed something, because I’m about to get rescued pretty soon.” 

“You keep making this claim,” Alec says slowly. “I really don’t think you know what you’re talking about. Maybe we hit you with more dope than we meant to.” 

“We’re either in the Pea’qan forests, the database of souls, or the Luan!in forest,” Valerian says flatly. “I figured that out from the heat and the neon colours. Agent Laureline will be getting similar information on the heat, plus data on air composition that I’m guessing are going to narrow things down even further. She’s going to know where I am.” 

Alec glances to Lanky and Pannas, expression unreadable. “Looks like we’ll be moving, then,” he says. 

Valerian snorts a laugh. “Seriously?” he says. “You actually think that I’d be telling you this if there was any chance of you getting away? Depending on how Laureline’s investigation went while I was napping, she’s either already got your bosses handcuffed even tighter than I am or you’re going to give us some very valuable information that’ll help us find out what exactly your bosses have done with Agents *%$!, Mattie, Q’resh and Green.” 

Alec’s shoulders are tight. “You’re the only one we’ve taken,” he says sharply. 

“That’s not surprising,” Valerian answers easily. “Split the labour, less likely that the bosses get caught. It’s crime 101, so I’m surprised that surprises you.” 

There’s a muscle jumping in Alec’s jaw. 

“But the point of all this is that I know where we are, now,” Valerian says. “I was going between the forest and the database, mainly because of that sulphur smell in the air? But I know we’re in the forest, now. Do you want to know why I know that?” 

“Why?” Alec grinds out. 

Valerian jerks his head towards the ceiling. “Optionally permeable walls,” he answers, and ducks for cover. 

Bolts of neon fire come blasting down through the ceiling, knocking Lanky off his perch and sending Pannas spiralling towards the back of the room. Alec ducked the same moment Valerian did—smart bastard—so he’s not knocked into unconscious like his colleagues, and he’s crawling towards Valerian, knife in his hand and teeth bared, when that permeable ceiling snaps into full effect and Valerian’s rescuer comes crashing through. Her boots land firmly on Alec’s shoulders, shoving him face-first into the floor with a crack of a breaking nose, and then another of those stun blasts is put into the middle of his back. He goes limp immediately, and then all that’s left is the sound of Valerian’s breathing. 

He unducks and looks up, but the beginnings of a smile on his lips are rapidly wiped away. He frowns. “Who are you?” 

The woman standing in front of him in governmental armour isn’t Laureline. Her hair is dark, there’s a long scar stretching down her cheek, ear to chin, and her eyes might be the same shade of blue as Laureline’s but she’s _not her_. “I’m Agent Jaina,” she says, crouching down to cuff Alec’s hands behind his back. “Hang on one second, Agent Valerian: I’ll be right with you.” 

A cold, twisted hand is closing around Valerian’s heart. “Where’s Laureline?” he asks, forcing himself to keep his voice level.

Jaina finishes up with Lanky then goes behind Valerian to deal with Pannas. Her hands are snapping away the restraints around Valerian’s wrists before she talks. “She went on the raid to rescue the other agents,” she answers eventually, when she’s freeing Valerian’s ankles. He flexes his wrists, watches her carefully for any hint of a lie. “She was the one that tracked you, but she tracked them, too. We ascertained that you were safe, but we couldn’t do the same for the others.” 

Laureline is doing her job. Valerian can’t complain about that, but he is sort of sad that she’s not the one to come crashing through and save him. “What’s the status of the raid?” he asks. 

Jaina pauses in her struggles with the band around Valerian’s chest, taps the readout on her wrist. She peers at the data that Valerian can’t see, her forehead creased a little, then glances up at Valerian briefly and returns to freeing him. “The raid’s completed,” she says, voice a little slow, a little unsteady. She doesn’t elaborate, and in a couple of seconds the band clicks free. 

Valerian gets to his feet slowly, stretching out aching muscles, cracking his neck, his shoulders, his knees. There’s a faint haze to his head, enough that he knows he’s been drugged but not enough to throw him off his game. He probably shouldn’t try to shoot anyone. 

“Once these guys have been picked up, we should get you to a hospital,” Jaina says. 

Valerian spends far too much time in hospitals. “No,” he says. “Let’s go to the raid. Where was it?” 

Jaina eyes him warily. “Agent Valerian—”

“Major,” Valerian stresses, because he might have blanked at Jaina’s face to start off with but he’s starting to recognise her, now. She’s a sergeant, same rank as Laureline – and it’s not like him to pull rank, it really isn’t, but he does not like the sick look in Jaina’s eyes. “You stay here, ensure that these guys are shipped off to where they’re supposed to be. Transfer me the data on Laureline’s raid, and I’ll go there myself.” A pause. “I can make it an order if it makes you feel better.” 

Jaina’s expression steels into an icy mask. “Yes, sir,” she says, and with a few taps of her fingers the data is blinking brightly on the readout on Valerian’s wrist. 

Valerian nods his thanks, then accesses the file she sent him, opens it, starts skimming through. It’s a battlefield report so it’s short and sketchy, mainly pieced together from open commlines and sensor readings, but Valerian gets the picture. Valerian gets the picture, and as he gets it an icy hand closes tighter and tighter around his gut. 

He takes an unsteady step towards the exit. “You’ve got transport?” he asks, not really looking at Agent Jaina, tongue thick in his mouth. 

Jaina nods. “A bike, ten paces down the street,” she says. “It’s standard issue. Take it.” 

Valerian meets her gaze for a moment, meets those blue eyes that are so like Laureline’s. They don’t speak for a long moment, both silent, caught in the knowledge, caught in the sickness, and then Jaina tilts her head, offers a fraction of a smile. “I’m glad we found you, Major Valerian,” she says, and it’s not sarcasm, not mockery, not irritation that he’s lorded his rank over her when she was just trying to do her job. It’s genuine. 

Valerian’s hand unconsciously mutes the display on his wrist. “Me too,” he answers, just as quiet, then ducks out and goes. 

The coordinates for Laureline’s raid are on the other side of Alpha, in a rundown back street in one of the many human habitations—New New Canterbury, if Valerian’s distracted geography is even vaguely accurate—so it takes him a while to get there, even with his governmental authority cutting a swathe through the traffic. The building is a ragged old structure that, by the looks of the gleaming metal peeking out through the thrown-open doors, hides a much more state-of-the-art structure, and Valerian pulls up alongside, leaves his borrowed bike next to a clutch of government vehicles, and heads inside. His ident chip is checked three times before he even gets to the doors, but he’s not about to complain. He’s not about to protest. 

His stomach is a black hole in his gut. 

Valerian finds Laureline in the depths of the warren, hair pulled back in a tight knot at the nape of her neck, hand propped cautiously on her holstered gun. There’s blood on her boots and a frown furrowing her forehead as she speaks in muted tones to one of the dozen or so medical technicians buzzing around the warehouse space at the centre of this maze of corridors and staircases. She’s clearly at least partially in charge here—the first agent on the scene, Valerian supposes—but there’s a slump to her shoulders and a tiredness in the slope of her neck. 

The stench is almost unbearable. 

Valerian goes to her, picking his way through body parts and pools of blood, through excrement and vomit, stepping slowly because he doesn’t want to make a mess of anything that might be evidence. Realistically he shouldn’t be walking through this splatter-painting at all, but the report he skimmed said that the perpetrators have been mostly apprehended, with some of them being shot dead as they fled from the scene. The only thing to do now is to try to piece together the bodies, laid out in ritualistic patterns, like a séance, like a religion.

Valerian passes what he thinks might be one of *%$!’s secondary appendages, but it’s too smeared with filth for him to be sure. 

Laureline looks up at his approach. “Valerian,” she says, surprised, and then: “You should be in the hospital.” 

“Jaina tried to make me go,” Valerian says, trying for his usual cocky charm even though it’s proving difficult. “I came here instead.” He forces himself to glance around, to take everything in, to assess the situation because that’s what he should be doing instead of trying desperately to ignore the smell and the slipperiness and the death. “Anything I can do to help?” 

Laureline shakes her head. “It’s under control,” she says. “The medical techs are cleaning up the bodies, trying to find… enough for the families to so goodbye to.” A flicker of pain spasms through her eyes. “It’s proving difficult.” 

“I can imagine,” Valerian says softly. He steps closer again, a little too close to be strictly professional, and ducks his head. “When was the last time you slept? You look like shit.” 

The dark shadows under Laureline’s eyes crinkle as she frowns. “I… can’t remember,” she says. “I’d be awake for over a day before you missed your check-in, and then it took maybe another five hours to find you? Then – this.” 

She should go back to Alex and get some sleep, Valerian knows, but he also knows full well that she’s not going to listen to him if he starts trying to boss her around right now. “What happened here?” he asks, because it’s not a good idea for either of them to hide from the reality of their lives, no, they’ve both tried it before and it doesn’t work. Valerian has no desire to end up on the receiving end of another psych eval. “The report I read was very minimal.”

Laureline shifts her stance, crosses her arms, looks out to the buzz of the med techs and the splatters on the ceiling. “The details aren’t entirely in place yet,” she says, “but from what we can tell, this was some kind of… cult. One focused around the destruction of authority and of social order, according to one of the guys back at headquarters. I can’t remember his name. You know, the one with the bad haircut and worse breath?” 

Valerian probably should feel bad that he knows who she means immediately. The guy’s a good analyst, but needs to work on his grooming habits. “Yeah, I know.” 

“They started kidnapping agents,” Laureline continues like he never spoke. Her forehead is creased, her eyes are faraway. “Some kind of initiation ritual, maybe? Or just some kind of fucked-up bonding exercise, we don’t really know. But they started kidnapping agents, or at least paying professional criminals to do it for them, and then they did – this.” She gestures at the cacophony of blood and bone around them, at the gore and the horror and the violence. She barely seems to be looking at it. “We think this was their display chamber,” she says, a matter-of-fact inflection seeping into her voice. “There are other rooms throughout the complex with various difficult prep machines in them—meat grinders, surgeries, vats—but they’re all perfectly neat, perfectly clean. They smell like antiseptic. For this one to be so difficult, it suggests that it’s special. Some part of their ideology, I think: if they hate everything that Alpha’s society stands for, then this is a pretty good way of expressing it.” 

“Laureline,” Valerian says carefully, because he can hear in her voice that she’s zoning out and that’s not what she needs to do. She needs to acknowledge. She needs to accept. 

She turns her bright gaze on him. There’s a fleck of blood high on one cheek, so out of place that it could almost be misplaced makeup. “There are gaps in the pattern,” she says flatly. “In here. There’s a balcony up in the rafters that you can see the whole thing from, and it’s all arranged in a distinct pattern, maybe even a shape. That shape is incomplete.” 

Valerian grits his teeth. “I know,” he says. “You can just about make it out from down here.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come and get you,” Laureline says suddenly, the shift in topic so quick it makes Valerian blink. “I wanted to, but we figured out where you were just in time to intercept a message sent between the people who took you and the people who paid them. We traced the message back to here, and the General asked me to take in a strike team.” 

“Which is exactly where you should be,” Valerian says. “Putting a stop to all this, not saving me.” 

“I put a stop to this _in order_ to save you,” Laureline answers, suddenly hot, suddenly frantic. “Valerian, this was meant to be you. The gaps in the pattern, they were meant for you.” 

“Yeah, I figured that,” Valerian says, aiming for droll but probably ending up somewhere around choked. “Good you found me when you did. Good you found these guys when you did.” 

Laureline blinks. Apart from that, her face is ghostly still. “I don’t think I’m okay with that.” 

“You shouldn’t be,” Valerian says gently, then reaches out and slowly takes her hand. “Laureline, let’s go. We’re not needed here anymore, the techs have got it. Let’s get out of here.” Laureline shows no sign of moving, so he tries again: “I’ll even let you take me to the hospital if you want to.” 

Laureline looks at him, sharp and keen. “Did they hurt you?” she asks, quick, fast. 

Valerian’s instinct is to downplay everything, but he knows full well that that won’t fly. “Not really,” he says easily. “I was drugged, and I think I’ve got a few bruises and scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing serious.” He doesn’t look at the slaughterhouse around them. “Nothing like this.” 

Laureline’s still staring at him, glassiness glazing her eyes. “Let’s go,” she says suddenly. “They don’t need us here anymore.” 

Valerian nods, forces himself to not point out that that’s exactly what he just said. “Sure,” he says. “I could use a drink.”

Laureline leads him back to Alex, taking them through Alpha’s winding streets on foot, two steps in front of him at all times even when he tries to talk to her, tries to get her to look at him, tries pretty much everything he can think of to get a reaction from her but there’s just… nothing. He knows why, of course, he recognises the signs: she’s slipped into shock, into that state of being where nothing touches you because everything’s just all too much to cope with. It’s a surprise, to be honest, because Laureline might only be a sergeant to his major but she’s not exactly inexperienced. From the moment they started their partnership she’s been right at his side, shoulder to shoulder, protecting him at the same time that he was protecting her.

But maybe, Valerian starts to realise, that’s the problem. 

When they get back to Alex, Laureline goes straight for the kitchen, opens the refrigeration unit and takes out the bottle of Malasasasian liquor that’s been sitting behind the milk for about two months, now. She uncorks the top and takes a long swallow before Valerian can stop her, then presses the back of her hand to her mouth and pulls a face. “It’s bitter,” she says absently. “I’d forgotten how bitter it is.” 

Valerian takes the bottle out of her hand, takes a small, tentative mouthful then pushes the stopper back into place. “Laureline,” he says, careful now that she’s actually looking at him to not startle her. “Do you want to sit down?”

She cocks her head. “No,” she says shortly. “No, I don’t.” A pause, in which she stares at him, eyes blue and bright and distracted. It’s sort of unnerving, but Valerian knows there are thoughts going on behind those eyes that he shouldn’t interrupt. She has to work it out for herself. “I should have been with you,” Laureline says abruptly, hair caught in wisps around her chin. “They shouldn’t have taken you. I should have stopped them.” 

Valerian shakes his head. “It’s not your job to stop me getting kidnapped,” he says. “I should have been paying more attention, although those guys were pros so I don’t feel too bad about being caught off guard.” 

“I should have stopped them,” Laureline repeats, slower. “I don’t know why I can’t get that out of my head. You’re fine, I know you’re fine, but I still just keep… thinking. I should have come to rescue you, I shouldn’t have sent Jaina.” 

“No,” Valerian says firmly. “No, you shouldn’t.”

Laureline’s lips twist. “Because there was more at stake than just you,” she says softly. “There are four families who have closure, now, and a whole warehouse full of people who won’t murder any more government agents. It wasn’t just about you.” Her eyes are burning, all the absentness blazed away. “But _it is_ about you. It’s always about you.” 

“And it’s never about me,” Valerian says, not disagreeing, never disagreeing. He smiles as much of a smile as he can manage, and he knows it’s lopsided and mostly full of bitterness but it seems to make something lighten in Laureline’s expression. “We’re never the important ones. That’s the job. We throw ourselves into the fire so that other people don’t have to.”

Laureline’s forehead furrows. “That’s a stupid job,” she says flatly. “We do a stupid job.” There’s a quaver to her voice, the faintest whisper of fear and shock, but it’s slipping away under a flood of annoyance and exhaustion and relief. She steps forward, steps only a little unsteady. “Valerian,” she says, his name like a prayer on her lips. “Can we quit? Can we run away, steal Alex, go and not live a life where we have to wade through the intestines of people we were drinking with less than a month ago?” 

Valerian brushes wisping hair away from her face, presses a thumb to her blood-flecked cheek. “You wouldn’t even if I said we could,” he says, lips quirked at the corner. 

Laureline leans into his hand, then reaches out and takes the liquor from his hand. “I hate it when you’re right.” 

Valerian laughs, just a little. “I think I’m always right.” 

“You wish,” Laureline answers. She studies him a moment longer, then cocks an eyebrow, offers the bottle. “Want to get really drunk?” she asks.

That’s definitely not the best way to deal with his trauma or her shock, but Valerian’s never exactly been the best at dealing with his own emotions, let alone someone else’s. “Sounds like a great idea,” he says, accepts the bottle when she passes it to him and drinks deep. It’s bitter, just like she said, but it’s better than the bitterness that they could have had today, better than the loss, better than the fear. He drinks again, feels the heat burning his throat, then swaps it back to Laureline. 

She drinks, then pauses, stares at the bottle in her hand. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to forget what we saw in there, no matter how much I drink,” she says, quieter. 

“You shouldn’t try to forget it,” Valerian says, watching her. “Trying to forget it just guarantees that you won’t. You just have to accept that it happened, and then move on to the next shitshow that comes our way.” 

Laureline makes a noise that might be agreement, might be a disgruntled grunt. “This is a stupid job.” 

“Pretty much,” Valerian agrees, steals the bottle, takes a drink.

They get staggeringly drunk, so drunk that they end up collapsing upside down into Laureline’s bed with Laureline still in her armour and Valerian stripped down to his underwear, lights still on and door wide open. Valerian sleeps soundly, deadly, snoring loud and proud, but on the few occasions he drifts back into wakefulness—once to pull the covers over his naked legs, once to go be quickly sick in the toilet—he finds Laureline still awake, still watching, still waiting. She doesn’t speak to him, not even when he comes stumbling back from the bathroom smelling of his own sweat and vomit, just curls next to him on her bed and watches him until he goes back to sleep. 

That’s her way of coping, he guesses. He’s always preferred oblivion. 

Valerian sleeps, eventually. 


End file.
